


What's in a Tree

by TheStrange_One



Series: 12 Days of Christmas 2020 [4]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sad Kid, Wait there is a tree, christmas tree hunting, no trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: Peter meets a little girl who just wants a Christmas tree. Is this a job for Spider-Man? It is now.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: 12 Days of Christmas 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054064
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	What's in a Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spyraldancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spyraldancer/gifts).



“Hey, hey,” Peter said as he tried to soothe the little girl. “It’ll be okay.”

The girl looked up, tears streaming down her face. “No it won’t!” she cried. “If we don’t have a tree, Santa can’t find us. And if Santa can’t find us, he can’t grant my Christmas wish!”

Peter strained his ears. Surely, in this huge crowd, there was _someone_ looking for this lost kid. People were yelling, laughing, arguing, singing—but no one seemed to be looking for a lost little girl. “Where’s your parents?” he asked. The child began to cry harder. “Grandparents?” he hazarded. “Aunt or uncle? Adult in charge of you?”

“There you are!” A tall, heavyset woman came up to them, face a stark mask of relief. She held a little boy’s hand in one gloved hand, and reached for the girl. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

“See?” said Peter. “I knew someone was looking for you.”

The woman looked at him before reaching out to grab the girl. “Who are you?” she demanded.

Peter hopped to his feet and gave a friendly wave. “Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!”

The woman was distinctly unimpressed. She turned to the girl. “You know better than to wander off.”

“But we need a Christmas tree!” protested the girl. Her eyes were wide and watering, legs and arms trembling.

Peter, being well acquainted with tantrums, quickly dropped back to the girl’s level. “You know,” he said conspiratorially, “Santa knows everything.”

“That doesn’t mean he can get in without a tree!” protested the child.

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose. “We talked about this,” she said. “It’s just too late to get a tree.”

“But—”

“How about this?” asked Peter, desperate to try and help the kid. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and kids should be happy on Christmas Eve. “Why don’t you tell me a neutral location you and your mom can go to, and I’ll look for a tree for you. I might not find one,” he said, knowing he was going to do everything in his power to find a Christmas tree for the tyke, “but if I do I’ll take it to that spot so you and your mom can go pick it up.”

The girl’s face lit up and she reached into the woman’s coat. “What are you doing?” demanded the woman demanded as the girl fished in the pocket. Suddenly she pulled out a business card and handed it to Peter.

“Here! Here! We live here!” the girl said as she shoved the card into his hand. “Bring the tree here!”

Without looking at the card (in case the child’s mother didn’t want the strange masked man to know where they lived), he turned to the woman. “Is that all right?” he asked her.

She sighed and the boy she was holding let out a giggle. “That’s fine. I’ve heard a lot about you, Spider-Man. I know _you_ won’t use the information wrongly.”

Peter nodded and the woman took the now excited child. The boy let go of her hand and ran up to Peter. “Are you really going to try to get us a tree?” he asked, sticking his hands in his pockets as he looked up at Peter suspiciously.

“I’m going to _try_ ,” Peter stressed. “I don’t know that I can,” he admitted, again.

The kid mulled that over. “Kay.” He shrugged. “It’s more than we had, anyway. We lost our tree when the house burned down.” He then turned and ran after his mom and sister.

Peter’s heart twisted at the information, and he decided that he was going to do anything he had to in order get those kids a tree. He looked at the card he was still holding. _Emily Preston Agent of SHIELD._ So that was how she knew him.

He turned to find a tree. How hard could it be?

Hard. It was very hard. Everywhere he went, all the trees were gone. It was like there had been a run on trees. He almost cried when one helpful little old lady tried to give him a tiny, crocheted tree that she’d made for her grandchildren when they came to visit—in February.

No. New York was _huge_. There _had_ to be a Christmas tree _somewhere_.

He almost swung by the gas station. It was old, rickety, and looked like it hadn’t pumped gas since before Captain America went under the ice—but there was a flash of green that caught his attention. A Christmas tree!

Peter ignored the two men arguing over the tree as he looked it over. It was—it was one of the saddest excuses for a Christmas tree that Peter had ever seen. About half the branches had lost so many needles they looked almost bare and there was a huge knot that had fused several branches together making the tree list to the side. The top of the tree was bent at a forty-five degree angle, and was actively shedding needles as Peter looked at it.

“No one asked Charlie Brown to pay almost two hundred dollars for that little twig of a tree!” snarled one of the men, drawing Peter’s attention to them. He turned to see—Deadpool? Arguing over a tree? What?

Peter looked at the man. More specifically, he looked at the man’s ragged, stained clothing, the slight tremor in the bare fingers, the flushed face, and the glassy eyes. Truth be told, the man didn’t look to be in much better shape than the tree.

And—well, with the new pay from the job he’d gotten at the Tower he could—still not afford it. But the crying, crushed face of the little girl lighting up with joy at the idea that Peter _might_ be able to find her a tree sprang into his mind and he sighed. “All right,” he said wearily as he reached for the anonymous bank card that he’d gotten, courtesy of Stark, to protect his identity if he needed to buy something while patrolling.

“’All right’?” Deadpool asked. “Spidey, honey, please tell me that you didn’t say what I think you said. You cannot, absolutely _cannot_ buy that tree.” Peter opened his mouth to protest that, yes, he _could_ buy the tree when the mercenary continued, “Because _I’m_ going to buy that tree.”

Oh no. No he was _not_. “Deadpool,” Peter said firmly, “for the sake of Christmas cheer, I need to buy the tree.”

“Oh, oh, no,” laughed the merc. “No. See, _I_ need that tree. Normally I’d just say, ‘Sure, Webs, you can have it no problem,’ but that seems to be the only damned Christmas tree left in the city.”

The man looked at them and grinned with a smile that was missing a few teeth. “So, y’all gonna get the tree, or what?” he asked.

Deadpool was a mercenary. He was a highly skilled tracker, assassin, and prankster. He was perfectly capable of sneaking up on Peter and not setting off the Spider-Sense.

Of course, if he was to be believed, he was also half in love with Spider-Man, and that could give Peter an edge. “Yes,” said Peter as he picked up the tree. “ _I’m_ going to get the tree.”

“For the love of holiday chimichangas, you will _not_.” Deadpool grabbed the tree, just above where Peter’s hands were.

Blood rushed to his face. This was ridiculous! Was he really going to have a low-key fight with Deadpool, here in a parking lot, over an overpriced half-dead tree?

Yes. Yes he was. That little girl’s house might have burned down, but if he had anything to say about it, she was _going_ to have a Christmas tree. “I’m getting it,” Peter ground out through clenched teeth as he tried to keep his grip both tight enough that Deadpool wasn’t going to get the tree and loose enough that he wasn’t going to break the thing.

Suddenly Deadpool slung an arm around the trunk and Peter heard a moist _pop_ before Deadpool yelled, “Wet Willie!”

Keeping one hand on the tree Peter danced back and fended off the bare, scarred hand coming towards him. “What are you _thinking_ Deadpool?” Peter asked.

“I’m thinking I’m gonna get this tree!” Seeing the finger wasn’t working, Deadpool changed tactics. Peter gave a low yelp as a boot collided with his butt. He whipped his head around to see that Deadpool was trying to kick him away from the tree.

“This is ridiculous!” Peter shouted as he hopped around, fending off the foot with one of his own and still fending off the other hand. “Stop it Dead—” Peter’s voice trailed off into a yelp as the two of them hit the pavement—destroying the crappy tree.

“No,” gasped Peter as he looked at the kindling.

“Poor baby,” whispered Deadpool. “Hold on!” he said excitedly. “This is a feel-good, happy fic! I’m sure the author wouldn't leave us stranded on these splinters!” Deadpool turned his head to the left as Peter shot him an incredulous look the merc couldn't have seen even if Peter’s mask was off.

“So, uh, y’all gonna pay for that tree?” asked the man.

“This is got to be the most stupid thing I have ever done,” Peter complained as he and Deadpool carefully carried the tree.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Deadpool said cheerfully. “You should have seen what I got them last year!” The merc paused. “Actually, no. Scratch that. You _shouldn't_ have seen what I got them last year; with your metabolism it might have killed you.”

“That is _not_ comforting,” said Peter. He stumbled over a piece of broken sidewalk, but caught his balance before he ruined the carefully made tree.

Somehow, out of the ruins of the sad Christmas tree (and a couple of “borrowed” deconstructed evergreen wreaths that Deadpool had found somewhere) and his webbing he’d created two Christmas trees.

They were horrifying creations, relying mostly on a quick hardening solution that Peter had applied to the webs in order to keep from coming apart, but he was banking on both the fact that Christmas was—well, Christmas had _started_ two hours ago and it was recognizable as a Christmas tree. Maybe. If someone was squinting hard. And maybe a little drunk. Peter hoped Emily Preston liked a spiked eggnog, because that was the only way that the tree would look good.

(He would die before he admitted it, but the glitter that Deadpool had sprinkled on the thing actually made it look a little bit better. Still looked like a train wreck, but now it looked like a _sparkling_ train wreck.)

The two of them had agreed that they would help each other out with getting the super fragile trees to their destinations. And, since Deadpool agreed to help Peter out, and had come up with the idea in the first place, they were going to deliver Deadpool’s tree first.

“Should I be concerned that your first thought is about my metabolism?” Peter asked. He stepped carefully over a toy he could barely see in the corner of his eye. He was afraid of looking away from the tree too long; if he got significantly distracted the tree might get broken (again) with no way to fix it this time.

“Chillax, Spidey,” said Deadpool with casual ease. The man, known for hopping to the beat of his own piper, was effortlessly gliding over the debris in the yard of the tiny town home like he had eyes in his feet. “Everyone lived.”

“Oddly enough,” Peter said as he partially turned in order to ring the doorbell, “I do _not_ find that reassuring. What were you into that—”

He was cut off by the door opening. “You found one?” asked a really surprised voice.

Peter looked at Ms. Emily Preston with a sheepish smile that she couldn't see through the mask. “Sort of?” he said. “It’s sort of made, and—wait.” Peter fished the business card out of his pocket to verify the address. Yup, this was the address of the sad little girl who desperately wanted a Christmas tree.

But this was also the address that Deadpool had brought them to, in order to deliver the tree. Why were they there? Had Deadpool somehow known where Peter was taking the tree?

“Hiyas, Pres,” chirped Deadpool.

The woman’s face fell into a stern expression. “Wade,” she said curtly.

Peter’s head swiveled between the two as best as he could around the tree. “You _know_ each other?” he asked with confusion. Well, Ms. Emily Preston _did_ work for SHIELD. Maybe that was how she knew Deadpool?

They ignored him. “What have I told you?” demanded the woman, white-hot rage in her voice. “You are not—”

“Daddy!” The no longer sad little girl barreled out of the house and tackled Deadpool, knocking the merc down. And making the painstakingly recreated tree fall to break into hundreds of tiny pieces when it hit the ground. “Daddy, you came home!” The girl hugged him tightly and he hugged her back.

“Ellie!” said Deadpool happily. “You doing good for our favorite robot?”

The woman rubbed her head and Peter felt the need to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“I know,” Ms. Emily Preston said wearily. “I work very hard to keep our connection to Deadpool secret.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Peter promised fervently. He looked at the remains of the tree. “Bright side,” he added, “there’s a spare tree.”

“Spare tree?” echoed Deadpool as he looked up at the two. “I thought you needed the other tree.”

“For Christmas cheer,” Peter said with a gesture to the little girl still clinging to Deadpool.

“For Ellie? Damn, Webs! If I’d a known that, I never would have tried to give you a Wet Willie!” The little girl giggled.

The woman sighed. “Come on,” she said reluctantly. “There’s room at the table for both of you.”

The girl let go of Wade and then ran to Peter to give him a hug. “Thank you, Spider-Man!” she said sweetly.

Aw. Peter knelt down to hug the girl and said, “I hope that when you grow up,” he said with feeling, “you take after your Momma.”

Deadpool laughed. “Don’t we all,” he said wistfully. “You staying, Webs?”

Peter could say no—but he didn’t really have anywhere to go. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I will.”

It wasn’t until after he’d gotten home he’d discovered that somehow Deadpool had written, _Kiss Me Under The Mistletoe_ in glitter on his back.

It wasn’t until he was in the privacy of his bathroom that he admitted he didn’t really mind.


End file.
